Keeping Score
by Enterpraise
Summary: It all started in TA 2756, when Legolas saved that tiny little whelp's life only to be met with ungratefulness and disgust. It was when Thorin saved his life next that a competition started between the two princes trying to find their place in the world. Thus starts the rather resentful broship of soon-to-be Thorin Oakenshield and Legolas Greenleaf.


It started when Thorin was just a wee lad at the tender age of ten. His grandfather, Thrór, King Under the Mountain, had been engaged in some bland sort of conference with the Elvenking and Lord Girion of Dale when the young dwarf prince waddled past his elven counterpart in the halls of Erebor. Thorin, only being around two feet at the time, had balefully glared up at Prince Legolas Greenleaf with all of the dwarfish might that he could muster.

The elf had returned his rather rude glare with his own imperious and all together arrogant look of his own and Thorin vaguely remembered having raised a tiny fist up in defiance only to be swiftly pushed to the side by the elf seconds later.

Raising his small head up with only slight dizziness, Thorin had immediately cried out in offence before he took notice of the arrow that had embedded itself in the tapestry before him. Disbelief washed over his features as guards came rushing down the hallway, eyes hard and cold for their babe of a prince was in trouble. The disbelief turned into irritation as the elven prince only bowed gracefully (and far too smug) before skipping down the corridor and into the shadows.

Quickly, frantic guards had surrounded him; Thorin was gently brought to his feet and spun around slowly to check for any injuries. When all was clear, Thorin had been praised for his fast reaction and impressive instincts; little did they know that all those compliments did was rile the prince up further and send him sulking in his own embarrassment at having been saved by an elf.

Frowning to himself, the little lad pattered down the passageway and tugged his teeny hands out from the hold of two suddenly dejected looking guardsmen and clasped both of them behind his back. With his tiny nose scrunched and lips pursed, Thorin immediately swore to himself that never again would he been subjected to such humiliation.

Next time, it would be Thorin, son of Thraín, son of Thrór who did the saving.

XXX

Legolas, Elven Prince of the Greenwood, had been on a patrol out in the woods while his father 'entertained' the Ereborean host. Sure, he could have joined in and honed in on his diplomatic skills, as was a prince's duty, but his father being his father decided to take up all the fun of setting the dwarves on edge for himself. Unfair, that was what it was, and instead, Legolas was thrown into Hilian's shift and forced to do circuits around the southern perimeter, near the outer sections of the Greenwood.

He really shouldn't be complaining, he knew this, but for all of his years, Legolas was still young and had much to learn about the world outside of his father's enclosed kingdom. Dignified prince or not, Legolas could not help but feel disparagement and put off by his father's innate selfishness.

Snapping dead branches as he steadily walked along the path, alone, Legolas breathed in the musty air. The air was still clear and fresh in some patches of the forest but as the health of the woodland spiraled downwards, the corruption and dark shadow that spurned from an evil place unknown polluted the sweet air with a syrupy, sinister song.

Evading the thorns from a nearby bush, Legolas stealthily jumped to the side, hearing the leaves crunch behind him and the quiet whistle of Lírith. The prince did not bother to look back, too absorbed in his own thoughts and ponderings to see that the whistle was not that of a person but of an arrow speeding through the air and hitting its target with deadly accuracy.

At the crunch that followed, Legolas spun around immediately, whipping out his twin blades with their pristine golden handles and sporting a fierce snarl that his father would have been proud of. Surprise overtook him when he saw the crisp carcass of a fresh killed giant spider, not alive and raring to end the elven prince's life. Legolas's eyes darted around the forest floor in his attempt to spot his savior when the sharp orbs caught sight of a four and a half foot tall dwarf with ice blue eyes and an untamed black mane.

No way.

It was beyond embarrassing, having being saved by a fifteen-year-old dwarven prince that hated his guts just as much as he loathed his. Not to mention: how in all of Arda did that damn dwarf even get this far out of the main kingdom? Thorin was quite possibly the most stubborn and stony being he had ever met, even at his extremely young age. For goodness sakes, even when the blighter was just ten the dwarfling had looked at Legolas like he'd rather see the elf's head on a silver platter than alive and in front of him.

Dark red spots bloomed on the princeling's face and a mocking smirk crossed the other prince's features when he caught sight of Legolas's humiliation. The elf understood it to be retribution for when he saved Thorin's life five years ago. He found it rather amusing and quite depressing that relations between his beauteous people and the unfeeling rock-dwellers had been torn so far apart that saving another's life was seen as an insult, not a deed of good.

However, it was no matter because in a matter of seconds, Thranduil's son spun on his heel and stormed off on the trail to complete another round, leaving the dwarven prince to swell with glee and disdain to his heart's content. Little did that sour midget bear cub know, he had started a contest driven by untamable pride with the elven prince and said elven prince was determined to win no matter what.

Legolas Greenleaf would save the ungrateful little cherub's life the most. Just watch him.

XXX

"No, I saved _your_ life! Not the other way around, you pointy-eared liar!"

Legolas held back a growl and kept his face expressionless as he stared down at the small prince before him. "You are most confused, Prince Thorin. It was I who spurned the falling rubble, not you."

Thorin's usually stoic face had turned an angry red at the sight of the impassive elf being as stubborn and obstinate as a cow that was being forced through the mud. "This is a tie," He hissed, his blue eyes glittering dangerously. "If anything we pushed each other out of the way and you know it."

Yes, Thorin, that daft bugger, Legolas most certainly did know it but that didn't mean he was going to comply and submit to the compromise of a tie.

"Legolas: two, Thraín's get: one." He stated and watched in hidden pleasure as the tiny prince blew up in his small fury.

XXX

"Thorin: three, Thranduil's spawn: two." Thorin crowed as he snapped the orc's neck with his bare hand, singular.

Legolas would have resentfully been impressed by the strength of the twenty-three year old dwarf (now a surprising five-foot-two feet tall) if the tiny prince were not so much of an arrogant arse, and if he hadn't had lost so obviously to him that day.

"_Mibo orch!_" He muttered, acid filling his tone, under his breath and had to hold himself back as Thorin laughed a loud, obnoxiously deep bellow that made Legolas twitch in disgust.

It seemed that it was time to step up his game.

XXX

"Your grandfather…"

Thorin's back went ramrod straight at the mention of Thrór and it was then that Legolas knew the madness pulsing through his competitor's grandfather's veins was not just some risky rumor but the terrible truth.

"My grandfather is none of your concern, Elf." Thorin snarled and Legolas in turn stiffened, eyes narrowing hatefully. "He is King Under the Mountain and there will be no slandering of his name in my company or without!"

Legolas frowned deeply and stepped closer to loom over the enraged dwarf in the fashion that he knew riled him up. "I made no mention of insults, _Dwarf_. All I did was mention King Thrór, nothing more, nothing less."

His jaw clenching, Thorin averted his eyes for a quick second in pain before turning back to Legolas. The elf sighed, recognizing that look and the fire that burned inside of them. With a start, Legolas realized that it had gotten to the point to where he could read the dwarf like an open book and he was not sure how to feel about that. The words of his tutors and father about dwarven emotions were completely false; this Legolas apprehensively came to understand. It was quite the opposite in fact. If anything, the dwarven race felt emotions the strongest for they burned the brightest.

It was not starlight, the pure light of the first-born, but the red, orange light of the unwanted. A lonely light that sought to endure by creating it's own life.

With the knowledge the younger Legolas could not fathom to be true, the elven prince observed how Thorin's mouth was set in a grim line and how his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white and stretched. The small prince was distraught and scared and it would have been the perfect opportunity to mock the prince for his weakness, Legolas knew.

But he did not, for some strange, unknown reason. Legolas felt rather uncomfortable at the thought of poking and prodding Thorin in a cruel manner during such unstable and tumultuous days. He was no bully; Legolas was a prince – venerable and respectful (when he put his mind to it) – and princes were to get close to their fellow prince-enemies, not further.

"Take caution, Thorin, son of Thraín, Son of Thrór, for nothing good can come out of these circumstances." Legolas gave Thorin a critical once over and his eyes widened with what he saw. "You know this, don't you?"

Thorin looked up and leveled Legolas with such a steely and cold glare that Legolas was sure that he was peering at stone, not a living being. "Mind your own," He replied and continued to hold Legolas's stare, unflinching and unbending.

Seeing no reason to argue even though the weary concern was practically oozing off of the dwarf, Legolas gave what he knew was an aggravatingly perfect bow to the prince complete with an insufferable smile. "The score remains the same," He grunted, trying not to roll his eyes at Thorin's scoff. "Till next time, Prince Thorin."

"Prince Legolas," Thorin replied curtly and forced Legolas to shove past him when he would not move out of his way.

_Dwarves._

XXX

Pacing his father's chambers, Legolas strode over to the balcony and looked with sorrowful and horrified eyes at the plumes upon plumes of smoke curling up like an unmerciful vice in the sky. The dragon, Smaug, had struck the kingdom of Erebor for its riches and, undoubtedly, the prosperous city of Dale had fallen with it.

It was terrifying and a massive rock slide of dread and – dare he say – compassion went out to the humans and dwarves. Being highly influenced by his father's own beliefs, it was known to him that the dwarves had brought this hell upon themselves, but even at his green age of five-hundred, Legolas knew that no child of Eru deserved such a heinous fate, not even a child of Mahal.

For a moment, Legolas's thoughts turned towards a small prince under the forsaken mountain and his blood turned ice cold. Surely, if the Valar had any mercy they would spare his competitor for who would keep the elf entertained and on his feet if not for Thorin, Son of Thraín?

A boom blasted throughout the land. A ferocious roar that made the princeling's knees tremble shook the earth and Legolas felt guilt and shame well up inside him. Dwarves were not just _things_, they were a hardy, stocky race of their own and despite his upbringing, Legolas had a begrudging respect for the hairy rock eaters. They might not be able to feel emotions – which was still up for debate even though Legolas knew in his heart that this was false, so very false – but the achievements and victories wrought by the dwarves were mighty and true to a fault. It was wrong and dishonorable to think that Thorin was placed on the earth for Legolas's sole amusement, especially in such a dire and tragic time.

The elven prince was intelligent to a fault and knew of the victories and importance of his dwarven counterpart but he could not help but feel anger and sorrow arise at the thought of Thorin falling to dragon fire when the elf was not there to save him. Strange logic it was, an elf saving a dwarf because he wanted to. It was downright obscene; however, Legolas did not want to save Thorin out of affection, – he'd cut down a tree first – but rather out of his own damnable stubbornness and need to be the superior of the two.

His father had left with an army of five hundred of his best archers and sword-wielders; surely the combined forces of the dwarves and elves could defeat a dragon?

No, that was not the case, according to Thranduil. It was much harder than that, his father had explained. There was no hope; nothing could be done except to aid; the dwarves had met their maker, both figuratively and literally;

Legolas, my son, they did not want my help.

He heard it all. Every excuse. Every single rational, mulled-over, cold and callous excuse. If leaving a kingdom's worth of people to die and burn for the sake of protecting your own was what a King's job entailed, Legolas did not want it. Not one bit.

Without looking at his father, Legolas curled his hand over the wooden banister and watched the world before him burn. He would never call his father a coward, never say he was honor-less or heartless, but in that moment such brash and ruthless thoughts washed over him in waves of rage. Thranduil was none of those things though. Every king has his failings and his father was no exception.

Thranduil was a good king and not even he could have prevented the tragedy that consumed Erebor that day.

Legolas grit his teeth and felt his eyes well at the sight of a consuming smoke desolating kingdoms whole. "What about the prince?" He asked in a rough voice. "Prince Thorin?"

Thranduil's closed face spoke volumes and Legolas lowered his head in silence. He did not necessarily dislike Thorin, per say, but that despicable, tiny little urchin had left the world with the upper hand and a lead in their competition, not even giving Legolas the chance to save his life a couple of times and redeem his honor as an elf.

Legolas should have known better. What an _arsehole. _

XXX

Elves had no conception of time – at least that was what mortals thought. Because the sands of time that hurried their lives did not have an end, Elves measured time through the seasons. Over one hundred and seventy falls had passed since Legolas had caught sight of Thorin, son of Thraín, son of Thrór. Long ago, the elven prince had assumed him dead, caught in the throes of his grandfather's madness and the fires of a servant of Melkor.

His father had made no mention of the tiny prince's name when he had asked so many years ago. There were still moments in Legolas's rather stagnant and bland life when his mind wandered to the unruly, infuriating, and much too hairy dwarf that had shared a mutual hatred and competitive spirit with him. The two had _not_ been friends, despite the odd glances and strange looks that his father and older brother bestowed upon him back in those days. But still, Legolas could not help but miss the passion and hate-fueled glares that the dwarf so ardently carried.

Imagine his surprise when he had gracefully stumbled across a disheveled and all together rag-tag group of thirteen dwarves, their leader none other than Thorin.

Eyes widened ever so slightly, Legolas was shocked to see the aged face of a dwarf he thought long dead. Thorin had grown into more of an ugly and hairy beast, Legolas was snide to notice; even his eyes were the same though the ice and frostiness that surrounded them was even more frigid and dangerous.

Shock turned into anger for why did his father not tell him about this? Surely something could have been done that day? Legolas had been led to believe that all of the dwarves of Erebor had perished in Smaug's wake – that none had survived. He had been living in blissful ignorance for over one hundred seventy years. His father's famous (infamous) isolationist ways only added infection to the wound. It was a sickening, shameful surprise he had never wanted, to find out he had been lied to.

Legolas was only allowed a second to relish in the horrid fact that the dwarven prince from his teenage years was, in fact, alive for the spiders of the fortress were ever growing in their audacity to strike the elven lands. A bold herd of them had been eagerly awaiting to feast on the dwarves and they were not too pleased about being interrupted by what Legolas presumed were the elves (judging by Thorin's nasty glower, his presumption was wrong.)

Whipping out his golden twin long-knives, the elven prince set to cutting down his foes with doughty determination. Slicing through the thick hide of the fell creatures, the sound of flesh tearing and ripping became somewhat harmonious in his ears. It was a violent and utterly un-elven thought but there was a sort of grim satisfaction in ending the enemy that had been infesting his home. The spiders did not seem to agree, even as he dug his blade into the meaty part of a spider's neck and pulled outwards, lopping the head off.

With a dull clamor of unsettled leaves, the head rolled southwards until it met the boot of a one Thorin, son of Thraín, son of Thrór. Legolas met his eyes once more and found no words on his tongue. He knew of the burden and grief of mortality – the impending death – that came with it, but he had never known of a dead face to come alive once more.

Laeilos grunted from his left and Legolas stepped forward, casting all confusing and mind-numbing thoughts aside to instantly point a steady elvish arrow at the tiny prince's face. Even more surprise followed when his eyes landed on – could he be hallucinating? – The sacred blade, the Goblin-Cleaver: Orcrist. The blade hummed contently, traitorously, as if it was finally home, in the dwarf's hand and Legolas hummed with rage.

"Do not think I won't kill you, Dwarf. It would be my pleasure." He snarled and his eyes darted to Orcrist once more, jaw tightening. "Where did you get that blade, trespasser?"

A fiery glow of blue gleamed in the prince's eyes, fury, and Legolas had to hold back an unbidden smile. "I found it in a troll hoard." He answered shortly, his fists clenched stiffly.

"You are not only a liar but a thief as well, _Prince_ Thorin." The elven prince said bitingly before barking out harsh orders for the company to be taken to his father for further punishment. His guard quickly set to working but as soon as he said his words, Thorin bristled like a wolf that had been whipped.

"_King_ Thorin II _Oakenshield_, Lord of Durin's Folk." Spoke the dwarf in a venomous hiss, his voice lowered to a deep octave that only Legolas could hear. "Get it right, _princeling_."

Ah, so his past counterpart had risen in the ranks of the monarchy it seemed. That could only mean one thing: that the greedy, mad Thrór and the blinded Thraín had met their end. Perhaps it had been for the best but Legolas felt a creeping dread, like a stalking shadow, envelop him. Thorin had, when he was younger and had not carried such a tormented look in his eyes, the makings of a great king.

Now, he was not so sure. All it took was one glance at the dwarf king to see Thrór. Deeply unsettling it was; he would have to talk to his father about such a development (and his reasons for keeping silent) during dinnertime.

For now though, Legolas had prisoners to lead. Thirteen of them to be precise, which included a living Thorin, so that meant that the competition was back on, yes? Surely, it did because Legolas sorely needed something to distract him.

As the huge, carved wooden doors creaked closed, Legolas gave one last look towards the outside, inhaling sharply when he thought he felt the leaves stir past him, _into_ the kingdom, but when he saw nothing but blank space, he stepped inside. Turning on his heel, the elven prince quickly caught up to the captured dwarf king and leaned close next to his overly large, round ear in a mocking form.

"Legolas: three, King-in-Exile: three." He said with hidden glee before stepping back to watch the challenging, enraged look spread across Thorin's face.

"Just you wait, son of a backbiting snake." Thorin snarled and Legolas frowned deeply in anger and confusion. It seems that talk with his father would have to come sooner than he had wanted.

"Just you wait,"

**_A/N:_**

**During the movie - both DOS and BOTFA - I realized that Legolas and Thorin kept on saving each other's lives. It was rather glorious to watch so I whipped something up to put it in words. Hope you enjoy!**

**Reviews, favs, and follows are much appreciated.**

**Thank You for reading.**


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